Boswell's Life of Johnson

These selections from James Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson,
LL.D. are for use in my classes. The text comes from R. W.
Chapman's 1904 Oxford edition; the page numbers correspond to
those in the Oxford World's Classic edition. I have removed all
footnotes, both those by Boswell and by other editors. Please
send comments and corrections to Jack
Lynch.

[Pages 272-94]

[1] This is to me a
memorable year; for in it I had the happiness to obtain the
acquaintance of that extraordinary man whose memoirs I am now
writing; an acquaintance which I shall ever esteem as one of the
most fortunate circumstances in my life. Though then but
two-and-twenty, I had for several years read his works with
delight and instruction, and had the highest reverence for their
authour, which had grown up in my fancy into a kind of
mysterious veneration, by figuring to myself a state of solemn
elevated abstraction, in which I supposed him to live in the
immense metropolis of London. Mr. Gentleman, a native of
Ireland, who passed some years in Scotland as a player, and as
an instructor in the English language, a man whose talents and
worth were depressed by misfortunes, had given me a
representation of the figure and manner of
DICTIONARYJohnson! as he was then
generally called; and during my first visit to London, which was
for three months in 1760, Mr. Derrick the poet, who was
Gentleman's friend and countryman, flattered me with hopes that
he would introduce me to Johnson, an honour of which I was very
ambitious. But he never found an opportunity; which made me
doubt that he had promised to do what was not in his power; till
Johnson some years afterwards told me, “Derrick, Sir, might very
well have introduced you. I had a kindness for Derrick, and am
sorry he is dead.”

[2] In the summer of
1761 Mr. Thomas Sheridan was at Edinburgh, and delivered
lectures upon the English Language and Publick Speaking to large
and respectable audiences. I was often in his company, and heard
him frequently expatiate upon Johnson's extraordinary knowledge,
talents, and virtues, repeat his pointed sayings, describe his
particularities, and boast of his being his guest sometimes till
two or three in the morning. At his house I hoped to have many
opportunities of seeing the sage, as Mr. Sheridan obligingly
assured me I should not be disappointed.

[3] When I returned
to London in the end of 1762, to my surprise and regret I found
an irreconcileable difference had taken place between Johnson
and Sheridan. A pension of two hundred pounds a year had been
given to Sheridan. Johnson, who, as has been already mentioned,
thought slightingly of Sheridan's art, upon hearing that he was
also pensioned, exclaimed, “What! have they given him a
pension? Then it is time for me to give up mine.” Whether this
proceeded from a momentary indignation, as if it were an affront
to his exalted merit that a player should be rewarded in the
same manner with him, or was the sudden effect of a fit of
peevishness, it was unluckily said, and, indeed, cannot be
justified. Mr. Sheridan's pension was granted to him not as a
player, but as a sufferer in the cause of government, when he
was manager of the Theatre Royal in Ireland, when parties ran
high in 1753. And it must also be allowed that he was a man of
literature, and had considerably improved the arts of reading
and speaking with distinctness and propriety.

[4] Besides, Johnson
should have recollected that Mr. Sheridan taught pronunciation to
Mr. Alexander Wedderburne, whose sister was married to Sir Harry
Erskine, an intimate friend of Lord Bute, who was the favourite
of the King; and surely the most outrageous Whig will not
maintain, that whatever ought to be the principle in the disposal
of offices, a pension ought never to be granted
from any bias of court connection. Mr. Macklin, indeed, shared
with Mr. Sheridan the honour of instructing Mr. Wedderburne; and
though it was too late in life for a Caledonian to acquire the
genuine English cadence, yet so successful were Mr. Wedderburne's
instructors, and his own unabating endeavours, that he got rid of
the coarse part of his Scotch accent, retaining only as much of
the “native woodnote wild,” as to mark his country; which, if any
Scotchman should affect to forget, I should heartily despise him.
Notwithstanding the difficulties which are to be encountered by
those who have not had the advantage of an English education, he
by degrees formed a mode of speaking, to which Englishmen do not
deny the praise of elegance. Hence his distinguished oratory,
which he exerted in his own country as an advocate in the Court
of Session, and a ruling elder of the Kirk, has had its
fame and ample reward, in much higher spheres. When I look back
on this noble person at Edinburgh, in situations so unworthy of
his brilliant powers, and behold LORD
LOUGHBOROUGH at London, the change seems almost
like one of the metamorphoses in Ovid; and as his two preceptors,
by refining his utterance, gave currency to his talents, we may
say in the words of that poet, “Nam vos mutastis.”

[5] I have dwelt the
longer upon this remarkable instance of successful parts and
assiduity, because it affords animating encouragement to other
gentlemen of North-Britain to try their fortunes in the southern
part of the island, where they may hope to gratify their utmost
ambition; and now that we are one people by the Union, it would
surely be illiberal to maintain, that they have not an equal
title with the natives of any other part of his Majesty's
dominions.

[6] Johnson
complained that a man who disliked him repeated his sarcasm to
Mr. Sheridan, without telling him what followed, which was, that
after a pause he added, “However, I am glad that Mr. Sheridan
has a pension, for he is a very good man.” Sheridan could never
forgive this hasty contemptuous expression. It rankled in his
mind; and though I informed him of all that Johnson said, and
that he would be very glad to meet him amicably, he positively
declined repeated offers which I made, and once went off
abruptly from a house where he and I were engaged to dine,
because he was told that Dr. Johnson was to be there. I have no
sympathetick feeling with such persevering resentment. It is
painful when there is a breach between those who have lived
together socially and cordially; and I wonder that there is not,
in all such cases, a mutual wish that it should be healed. I
could perceive that Mr. Sheridan was by no means satisfied with
Johnson's acknowledging him to be a good man. That could not
soothe his injured vanity. I could not but smile, at the same
time that I was offended, to observe Sheridan in the life of
Swift, which he afterwards published, attempting, in the
writhings of his resentment, to depreciate Johnson, by
characterising him as “A writer of gigantick fame, in these days
of little men”; that very Johnson whom he once so highly admired
and venerated.

[7] This rupture
with Sheridan deprived Johnson of one of his most agreeable
resources for amusement in his lonely evenings; for Sheridan's
well-informed, animated, and bustling mind never suffered
conversation to stagnate; and Mrs. Sheridan was a most agreeable
companion to an intellectual man. She was sensible, ingenious,
unassuming, yet communicative. I recollect, with satisfaction,
many pleasing hours which I passed with her under the hospitable
roof of her husband, who was to me a very kind friend. Her
novel, entitled “Memoirs of Miss Sydney Biddulph,” contains an
excellent moral, while it inculcates a future state of
retribution; and what it teaches is impressed upon the mind by a
series of as deep distress as can affect humanity, in the
amiable and pious heroine who goes to her grave unrelieved, but
resigned, and full of hope of “heaven's mercy.” Johnson paid her
this high compliment upon it: “I know not, Madam, that you have
a right, upon moral principles, to make your readers suffer so
much.”

[8] Mr. Thomas
Davies the actor, who then kept a bookseller's shop in
Russel-street, Covent-garden, told me that Johnson was very much
his friend, and came frequently to his house, where he more than
once invited me to meet him: but by some unlucky accident or
other he was prevented from coming to us.

[9] Mr. Thomas
Davies was a man of good understanding and talents, with the
advantage of a liberal education. Though somewhat pompous, he
was an entertaining companion; and his literary performances
have no inconsiderable share of merit. He was a friendly and
very hospitable man. Both he and his wife, (who has been
celebrated for her beauty,) though upon the stage for many
years, maintained an uniform decency of character; and Johnson
esteemed them, and lived in as easy an intimacy with them as
with any family which he used to visit. Mr. Davies recollected
several of Johnson's remarkable sayings, and was one of the best
of the many imitators of his voice and manner, while relating
them. He increased my impatience more and more to see the
extraordinary man whose works I highly valued, and whose
conversation was reported to be so peculiarly excellent.

[10] At last, on
Monday the 16th of May, when I was sitting in Mr Davies's
back-parlour, after having drunk tea with him and Mrs. Davies,
Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop; and Mr. Davies having
perceived him through the glass-door in the room in which we were
sitting, advancing towards us,  he announced his awful
approach to me, somewhat in the manner of an actor in the part of
Horatio, when he addresses Hamlet on the appearance of his
father's ghost, “Look, my Lord, it comes.” I found that I had a
very perfect idea of Johnson's figure, from the portrait of him
painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds soon after he had published his
Dictionary, in the attitude of sitting in his easy chair in deep
meditation; which was the first picture his friend did for him,
which Sir Joshua very kindly presented to me, and from which an
engraving has been made for this work. Mr. Davies mentioned my
name, and respectfully introduced me to him. I was much agitated;
and recollecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had
heard much, I said to Davies, “Don't tell where I come from.”
 “From Scotland,” cried Davies, roguishly. “Mr. Johnson,
(said I) I do indeed come from Scotland, but I cannot help it.” I
am willing to flatter myself that I meant this as light
pleasantry to soothe and conciliate him, and not as an
humiliating abasement at the expence of my country. But however
that might be, this speech was somewhat unlucky; for with that
quickness of wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the
expression “come from Scotland,” which I used in the sense of
being of that country; and, as if I had said that I had come away
from it, or left it, retorted, “That, Sir, I find, is what a very
great many of your countrymen cannot help.” This stroke stunned
me a good deal; and when we had sat down, I felt myself not a
little embarrassed, and apprehensive of what might come next. He
then addressed himself to Davies: “What do you think of Garrick?
He has refused me an order for the play for Miss Williams,
because he knows the house will be full, and that an order would
be worth three shillings.” Eager to take any opening to get into
conversation with him, I ventured to say, “O, Sir, I cannot think
Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifle to you.” “Sir, (said he,
with a stern look,) I have known David Garrick longer than you
have done: and I know no right you have to talk to me on the
subject.” Perhaps I deserved this check; for it was rather
presumptuous in me, an entire stranger, to express any doubt of
the justice of his animadversion upon his old acquaintance and
pupil. I now felt myself much mortified, and began to think, that
the hope which I had long indulged of obtaining his acquaintance
was blasted. And, in truth, had not my ardour been uncommonly
strong, and my resolution uncommonly persevering, so rough a
reception might have deterred me for ever from making any further
attempts. Fortunately, however, I remained upon the field not
wholly discomfited; and was soon rewarded by hearing some of his
conversation, of which I preserved the following short minute,
without marking the questions and observations by which it was
produced.

[11] “People (he
remarked) may be taken in once, who imagine that an authour is
greater in private life than other men. Uncommon parts require
uncommon opportunities for their exertion.

[12] “In barbarous
society, superiority of parts is of real consequence. Great
strength or great wisdom is of much value to an individual. But
in more polished times there are people to do every thing for
money; and then there are a number of other superiorities, such
as those of birth and fortune, and rank, that dissipate men's
attention, and leave no extraordinary share of respect for
personal and intellectual superiority. This is wisely ordered by
Providence, to preserve some equality among mankind.”

[13] “Sir, this book
(‘The Elements of Criticism,’ which he had taken up,)
is a pretty essay, and deserves to be held in some estimation,
though much of it is chimerical.”

[14] Speaking of one
who with more than ordinary boldness attacked publick measures
and the royal family, he said, “I think he is safe from the law,
but he is an abusive scoundrel; and instead of applying to my
Lord Chief Justice to punish him, I would send half a dozen
footmen and have him well ducked.”

[15] “The notion of
liberty amuses the people of England, and helps to keep off the
tedium vitæ. When a butcher tells you that his
heart bleeds for his country, he has, in fact, no uneasy
feeling.”

[16] “Sheridan will
not succeed at Bath with his oratory. Ridicule has gone down
before him, and I doubt, Derrick is his enemy.

[17] “Derrick may do
very well, as long as he can outrun his character; but the
moment his character gets up with him, it is all over.”

[18] It is, however,
but just to record, that some years afterwards, when I reminded
him of this sarcasm, he said, “Well, but Derrick has now got a
character that he need not run away from.”

[19] I was highly
pleased with the extraordinary vigour of his conversation, and
regretted that I was drawn away from it by an engagement at
another place. I had, for a part of the evening, been left alone
with him, and had ventured to make an observation now and then,
which he received very civilly; so that I was satisfied that
though there was a roughness in his manner, there was no
ill-nature in his disposition. Davies followed me to the door,
and when I complained to him a little of the hard blows which
the great man had given me, he kindly took upon him to console
me by saying, “Don't be uneasy. I can see he likes you very
well.”

[20] A few days
afterwards I called on Davies, and asked him if he thought I
might take the liberty of waiting on Mr. Johnson at his chambers
in the Temple. He said I certainly might, and that Mr. Johnson
would take it as a compliment. So on Tuesday the 24th of May,
after having been enlivened by the witty sallies of Messieurs
Thorton, Wilkes, Churchill, and Lloyd, with whom I had passed
the morning, I boldly repaired to Johnson. His chambers were on
the first floor of No. 1, Inner-Temple-lane, and I entered them
with an impression given me by the Reverend Dr. Blair, of
Edinburgh, who had been introduced to him not long before, and
described his having “found the Giant in his den”; an expression
which, when I came to be pretty well acquainted with Johnson, I
repeated to him, and he was diverted at this picturesque account
of himself. Dr. Blair had been presented to him by Dr. James
Fordyce. At this time the controversy concerning the pieces
published by Mr. James Macpherson, as translations of Ossian,
was at its height. Johnson had all along denied their
authenticity; and, what was still more provoking to their
admirers, maintained that they had no merit. The subject having
been introduced by Dr. Fordyce, Dr. Blair, relying on the
internal evidence of their antiquity, asked Dr. Johnson whether
he thought any man of a modern age could have written such
poems? Johnson replied, “Yes, Sir, many men, many women, and
many children.” Johnson at this time, did not know that Dr.
Blair had just published a Dissertation, not only defending
their authenticity, but seriously ranking them with the poems of
Homer and Virgil; and when he was afterwards informed of this
circumstance, he expressed some displeasure at Dr. Fordyce's
having suggested the topick, and said, “I am not sorry that they
got thus much for their pains. Sir, it was like leading one to
talk of a book, when the authour is concealed behind the
door.”

[21] He received me
very courteously: but, it must be confessed, that his apartment,
and furniture, and morning dress, were sufficiently uncouth. His
brown suit of cloaths looked very rusty: he had on a little old
shrivelled unpowdered wig, which was too small for his head; his
shirt-neck and knees of his breeches were loose; his black
worsted stockings ill drawn up; and he had a pair of unbuckled
shoes by way of slippers. But all these slovenly particularities
were forgotten the moment that he began to talk. Some gentlemen,
whom I do not recollect, were sitting with him; and when they
went away, I also rose; but he said to me, “Nay, don't go.”
 “Sir, (said I), I am afraid that I intrude upon you. It
is benevolent to allow me to sit and hear you.” He seemed
pleased with this compliment, which I sincerely paid him, and
answered, “Sir, I am obliged to any man who visits me.” 
I have preserved the following short minute of what passed this
day.

[22] “Madness
frequently discovers itself merely by unnecessary deviation from
the usual modes of the world. My poor friend Smart showed the
disturbance of his mind, by falling upon his knees, and saying
his prayers in the street, or in any other unusual place. Now
although, rationally speaking, it is greater madness not to pray
at all, than to pray as Smart did, I am afraid there are so many
who do not pray, that their understanding is not called in
question.”

[23] Concerning this
unfortunate poet, Christopher Smart, who was confined in a
mad-house, he had, at another time, the following conversation
with Dr. Burney.  BURNEY. “How does poor
Smart do, Sir; is he likely to recover?” Johnson.
“It seems as if his mind had ceased to struggle with the
disease; for he grows fat upon it.” BURNEY.
“Perhaps, Sir, that may be from want of exercise.”
Johnson. “No, Sir; he has partly as much exercise
as he used to have, for he digs in the garden. Indeed, before
his confinement, he used for exercise to walk to the alehouse;
but he was carried back again. I did not think he ought
to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He
insisted on people praying with him; and I'd as lief pray with
Kit Smart as any one else. Another charge was, that he did not
love clean linen; and I have no passion for it.”

[24] Johnson
continued. “Mankind have a great aversion to intellectual
labour; but even supposing knowledge to be easily attainable,
more people would be content to be ignorant than would take even
a little trouble to acquire it.

[25] “The morality of an action
depends on the motive from which we act. If I fling half a crown
to a beggar with intention to break his head, and he picks it up
and buys victuals with it, the physical effect is good; but, with
respect to me, the action is very wrong. So, religious exercises,
if not performed with an intention to please God, avail us nothing. As our Saviour says of
those who perform them from other motives, ‘Verily they
have their reward.’”

[26] “The Christian
religion has very strong evidences. It, indeed, appears in some
degree strange to reason; but in History we have undoubted
facts, against which, in reasoning a priori, we have more
arguments than we have for them; but then, testimony has great
weight, and casts the balance. I would recommend to every man
whose faith is yet unsettled, Grotius,  Dr. Pearson,
 and Dr. Clarke.”

[27] Talking of
Garrick, he said, “He is the first man in the world for
sprightly conversation.”

[28] When I rose a
second time, he again pressed me to stay, which I did.

[29] He told me,
that he generally went abroad at four in the afternoon, and
seldom came home till two in the morning. I took the liberty to
ask if he did not think it wrong to live thus, and not make more
use of his great talents. He owned it was a bad habit. On
reviewing, at the distance of many years, my journal of this
period, I wonder how, at my first visit, I ventured to talk to
him so freely, and that he bore it with so much indulgence.

[30] Before we
parted, he was so good as to promise to favour me with his
company one evening at my lodgings: and, as I took my leave,
shook me cordially by the hand. It is almost needless to add,
that I felt no little elation at having now so happily
established an acquaintance of which I had been so long
ambitious.

[31] My readers
will, I trust, excuse me for being thus minutely circumstantial,
when it is considered that the acquaintance of Dr. Johnson was
to me a most valuable acquisition, and laid the foundation of
whatever instruction and entertainment they may receive from my
collections concerning the great subject of the work which they
are now perusing.

[32] I did not visit
him again till Monday, June 13, at which time I recollect no
part of his conversation, except that when I told him I had been
to see Johnson ride upon three horses, he said, “Such a man,
Sir, should be encouraged; for his performances shew the extent
of the human power in one instance, and thus tend to raise our
opinion of the faculties of man. He shews what may be attained
by persevering application; so that every man may hope, that by
giving as much application, although perhaps he may never ride
three horses at a time, or dance upon a wire, yet he may be
equally expert in whatever profession he has chosen to
pursue.”

[33] He again shook
me by the hand at parting, and asked me why I did not come
oftener to him. Trusting that I was now in his good graces, I
answered, that he had not given me much encouragement, and
reminded him of the check I had received from him at our first
interview. “Poh, poh! (said he, with a complacent smile), never
mind these things. Come to me as often as you can. I shall be
glad to see you.”

[34] I had learnt
that his place of frequent resort was the Mitre tavern in
Fleet-street, where he loved to sit up late, and I begged I
might be allowed to pass an evening with him there soon, which
he promised I should. A few days afterwards I met him near
Temple-bar, about one o'clock in the morning, and asked him if
he would then go to the Mitre. “Sir, (said he) it is too late;
they won't let us in. But I'll go with you another night with
all my heart.”

[35] A revolution of
some importance in my plan of life had just taken place; for
instead of procuring a commission in the foot-guards, which was
my own inclination, I had, in compliance with my father's
wishes, agreed to study the law, and was soon to set out for
Utrecht, to hear the lectures of an excellent Civilian in that
University, and then to proceed on my travels. Though very
desirous of obtaining Dr. Johnson's advice and instructions on
the mode of pursuing my studies, I was at this time so occupied,
shall I call it? or so dissipated, by the amusements of London,
that our next meeting was not till Saturday, June 25, when
happening to dine at Clifton's eating-house, in Butcher-row, I
was surprised to perceive Johnson come in and take his seat at
another table. The mode of dining, or rather being fed, at such
houses in London, is well known to many to be particularly
unsocial, as there is no Ordinary, or united company, but each
person has his own mess, and is under no obligation to hold any
intercourse with any one. A liberal and full-minded man,
however, who loves to talk, will break through this churlish and
unsocial restraint. Johnson and an Irish gentleman got into a
dispute concerning the cause of some part of mankind being
black. “Why, Sir, (said Johnson,) it has been accounted for in
three ways: either by supposing that they are the posterity of
Ham, who was cursed; or that God at first created two kinds of
men, one black and another white; or that by the heat of the sun
the skin is scorched, and so acquires a sooty hue. This matter
has been much canvassed among naturalists, but has never been
brought to any certain issue.” What the Irishman said is totally
obliterated from my mind; but I remember that he became very
warm and intemperate in his expressions: upon which Johnson
rose, and quietly walked away. When he had retired, his
antagonist took his revenge, as he thought, by saying, “He has a
most ungainly figure, and an affectation of pomposity, unworthy
of a man of genius.”

[36] Johnson had not observed that I
was in the room. I followed him, however, and he agreed to meet
me in the evening at the Mitre. I called on him, and we went
thither at nine. We had a good supper, and port wine, of which he
then sometimes drank a bottle. The orthodox high-church sound of
the Mitre,  the figure and manner
of the celebrated SAMUELJohnson,  the extraordinary power and
precision of his conversation, and the pride arising from finding
myself admitted as his companion, produced a variety of
sensations, and a pleasing elevation of mind beyond what I had
ever before experienced. I find in my journal the following
minute of our conversation, which, though it will give but a very
faint notion of what passed, is, in some degree, a valuable
record; and it will be curious in this view, as showing how
habitual to his mind were some opinions which appear in his
works.

[37] “Colley Cibber,
Sir, was by no means a blockhead; but by arrogating to himself
too much, he was in danger of losing that degree of estimation
to which he was entitled. His friends gave out that he
intended his birth-day Odes should be bad: but that was
not the case, Sir; for he kept them many months by him, and a
few years before he died he shewed me one of them, with great
solicitude to render it as perfect as might be, and I made some
corrections, to which he was not very willing to submit. I
remember the following couplet in allusion to the King and
himself:

'Perch'd on the eagle's soaring wing, The lowly linnet loves
to sing.'

[38] Sir, he had
heard something of the fabulous tale of the wren sitting upon
the eagle's wing, and he had applied it to a linnet. Cibber's
familiar style, however, was better than that which Whitehead
has assumed. Grand nonsense is insupportable. Whitehead
is but a little man to inscribe verses to players.”

[39] I did not
presume to controvert this censure, which was tinctured with his
prejudice against players, but I could not help thinking that a
dramatick poet might with propriety pay a compliment to an
eminent performer, as Whitehead has very happily done in his
verses to Mr. Garrick.

[40] “Sir, I do not
think Gray a first-rate poet. He has not a bold imagination, nor
much command of words. The obscurity in which he has involved
himself will not persuade us that he is sublime. His Elegy in a
church-yard has a happy selection of images, but I don't like
what are called his great things. His ode which begins

'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King, Confusion on thy banners
wait!'

has been celebrated for its abruptness, and plunging into the
subject all at once. But such arts as these have no merit,
unless when they are original. We admire them only once; and
this abruptness has nothing new in it. We have had it often
before. Nay, we have it in the old song of Johnny Armstrong:

'Is there ever a man in all Scotland, From the highest
estate to the lowest degree, &c.'

And then, Sir,

'Yes, there is a man in Westmoreland And Johnny Armstrong
they do him call.'

[41] There, now, you
plunge at once into the subject. You have no previous narration
to lead you to it.  The two next lines in that Ode are, I
think, very good:

'Though fann'd by conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air
with idle state.'”

[42] Here let it be
observed, that although his opinion of Gray's poetry was widely
different from mine, and I believe from that of most men of
taste, by whom it is with justice highly admired, there is
certainly much absurdity in the clamour which has been raised,
as if he had been culpably injurious to the merit of that bard,
and had been actuated by envy. Alas! ye little short-sighted
criticks, could Johnson be envious of the talents of any of his
contemporaries? That his opinion on this subject was what in
private and in publick be uniformly expressed, regardless of
what others might think, we may wonder, and perhaps regret; but
it is shallow and unjust to charge him with expressing what he
did not think.

[43] Finding him in
a placid humour, and wishing to avail myself of the opportunity
which I fortunately had of consulting a sage, to hear whose
wisdom, I conceived, in the ardour of youthful imagination, that
men filled with a noble enthusiasm for intellectual improvement
would gladly have resorted from distant lands;  I opened
my mind to him ingenuously, and gave him a little sketch of my
life, to which he was pleased to listen with great attention.

[44] I acknowledged,
that though educated very strictly in the principles of
religion, I had for some time been misled into a certain degree
of infidelity; but that I was come now to a better way of
thinking, and was fully satisfied of the truth of the Christian
revelation, though I was not clear as to every point considered
to be orthodox. Being at all times a curious examiner of the
human mind, and pleased with an undisguised display of what had
passed in it, he called to me with warmth, “Give me your hand; I
have taken a liking to you.” He then began to descant upon the
force of testimony, and the little we could know of final
causes; so that the objections of, why was it so? or why was it
not so? ought not to disturb us; adding, that he himself had at
one period been guilty of a temporary neglect of religion, but
that it was not the result of argument, but mere absence of
thought.

[45] After having
given credit to reports of his bigotry, I was agreeably
surprised when he expressed the following very liberal
sentiment, which has the additional value of obviating an
objection to our holy religion, founded upon the discordant
tenets of Christians themselves: “For my part, Sir, I think all
Christians, whether Papists or Protestants, agree in the
essential articles, and that their differences are trivial, and
rather political than religious.”

[46] We talked of belief in ghosts.
He said, “Sir, I make a distinction between what a man may
experience by the mere strength of his imagination, and what
imagination cannot possibly produce. Thus, suppose I should think
that I saw a form, and heard a voice cry, ‘Johnson, you are
a very wicked fellow, and unless you repent you will certainly be
punished’; my own unworthiness is so deeply impressed upon
my mind, that I might imagine I thus saw and heard, and
therefore I should not believe that an external communication had
been made to me. But if a form should appear, and a voice should
tell me that a particular man had died at a particular place, and
a particular hour, a fact which I had no apprehension of, nor any
means of knowing, and this fact, with all its circumstances,
should afterwards be unquestionably proved, I should, in that
case, be persuaded that I had supernatural intelligence imparted
to me.”

[47] Here it is
proper, once for all, to give a true and fair statement of
Johnson's way of thinking upon the question, whether departed
spirits are ever permitted to appear in this world, or in any way
to operate upon human life. He has been ignorantly misrepresented
as weakly credulous upon that subject; and, therefore, though I
feel an inclination to disdain and treat with silent contempt so
foolish a notion concerning my illustrious friend, yet as I find
it has gained ground, it is necessary to refute it. The real fact
then is, that Johnson had a very philosophical mind, and such a
rational respect for testimony, as to make him submit his
understanding to what was authentically proved, though he could
not comprehend why it was so. Being thus disposed, he was willing
to inquire into the truth of any relation of supernatural agency,
a general belief of which has prevailed in all nations and ages.
But so far was he from being the dupe of implicit faith, that he
examined the matter with a jealous attention, and no man was more
ready to refute its falsehood when he had discovered it.
Churchill in his poem entitled “The Ghost,” availed himself of
the absurd credulity imputed to Johnson, and drew a caricature of
him under the name of “POMPOSO,” representing him
as one of the believers of the story of a Ghost in Cock-lane,
which, in the year 1762, had gained very general credit in
London. Many of my readers, I am convinced, are to this hour
under an impression that Johnson was thus foolishly deceived. It
will therefore surprize them a good deal when they are informed
upon undoubted authority, that Johnson was one of those by whom
the imposture was detected. The story had become so popular, that
he thought it should be investigated; and in this research he was
assisted by the Reverend Dr. Douglas, now Bishop of Salisbury,
the great detecter of impostures; who informs me, that after the
gentlemen who went and examined into the evidence were satisfied
of its falsity, Johnson wrote in their presence an account of it,
which was published in the news-papers and Gentleman's Magazine,
and undeceived the world.

[48] Our
conversation proceeded. “Sir, (said he,) I am a friend to
subordination, as most conducive to the happiness of society.
There is a reciprocal pleasure in governing and being
governed.”

[49] “Dr. Goldsmith
is one of the first men we now have as an authour, and he is a
very worthy man too. He has been loose in his principles, but he
is coming right.”

[50] I mentioned
Mallet's tragedy of “ELVIRA,” which had been
acted the preceding winter at Drury-lane, and that the
Honourable Andrew Erskine, Mr. Dempster, and myself, had joined
in writing a pamphlet, entitled “Critical Strictures” against
it. That the mildness of Dempster's disposition had, however,
relented; and he had candidly said, “We have hardly a right to
abuse this tragedy; for bad as it is, how vain should either of
us be to write one not near so good.” Johnson.
“Why no, Sir; this is not just reasoning. You may abuse a
tragedy, though you cannot write one. You may scold a carpenter
who has made you a bad table, though you cannot make a table. It
is not your trade to make tables.”

[51] When I talked
to him of the paternal estate to which I was heir, he said,
“Sir, let me tell you, that to be a Scotch landlord, where you
have a number of families dependent upon you, and attached to
you, is, perhaps as high a situation as humanity can arrive at.
A merchant upon the 'Change of London, with a hundred thousand
pounds, is nothing; an English Duke, with an immense fortune, is
nothing: he has no tenants who consider themselves as under his
patriarchal care, and who will follow him to the field upon an
emergency.”

[52] His notion of
the dignity of a Scotch landlord had been formed upon what he
had heard of the Highland Chiefs; for it is long since a lowland
landlord has been so curtailed in his feudal authority, that he
has little more influence over his tenants than an English
landlord; and of late years most of the Highland Chiefs have
destroyed, by means too well known, the princely power which
they once enjoyed.

[53] He proceeded:
“Your going abroad, Sir, and breaking off idle habits, may be of
great importance to you. I would go where there are courts and
learned men. There is a good deal of Spain that has not been
perambulated. I would have you go thither. A man of inferiour
talents to yours may furnish us with useful observations upon
that country.” His supposing me, at that period of life, capable
of writing an account of my travels that would deserve to be
read, elated me not a little.

[54] I appeal to
every impartial reader whether this faithful detail of his
frankness, complacency, and kindness to a young man, a stranger
and a Scotchman, does not refute the unjust opinion of the
harshness of his general demeanour. His occasional reproofs of
folly, impudence, or impiety, and even the sudden sallies of his
constitutional irritability of temper, which have been preserved
for the poignancy of their wit, have produced that opinion among
those who have not considered that such instances, though
collected by Mrs. Piozzi into a small volume, and read over in a
few hours, were, in fact, scattered through a long series of
years: years, in which his time was chiefly spent in instructing
and delighting mankind by his writings and conversation, in acts
of piety to God, and good-will to men.

[55] I complained to
him that I had not yet acquired much knowledge, and asked his
advice as to my studies. He said, “Don't talk of study now. I
will give you a plan; but it will require some time to consider
of it.” “It is very good in you (I replied,) to allow me to be
with you thus. Had it been foretold to me some years ago that I
should pass an evening with the authour of the
RAMBLER, how should I have exulted!” What I then
expressed was sincerely from the heart. He was satisfied that it
was, and cordially answered, “Sir, I am glad we have met. I hope
we shall pass many evenings and mornings too, together.” We
finished a couple of bottles of port, and sat till between one
and two in the morning.

[56] He wrote this
year in the Critical Review the account of “Telemachus, a Mask,”
by the Reverend George Graham, of Eton College. The subject of
this beautiful poem was particularly interesting to Johnson, who
had much experience of “the conflict of opposite principles,”
which he describes as “The contention between pleasure and
virtue, a struggle which will always be continued while the
present system of nature shall subsist; nor can history or
poetry exhibit more than pleasure triumphing over virtue, and
virtue subjugating pleasure.”

[57] As Dr. Oliver
Goldsmith will frequently appear in this narrative, I shall
endeavour to make my readers in some degree acquainted with his
singular character. He was a native of Ireland, and a
contemporary with Mr. Burke, at Trinity College, Dublin, but did
not then give much promise of future celebrity. He, however,
observed to Mr. Malone, that “though he made no great figure in
mathematicks, which was a study in much repute there, he could
turn an Ode of Horace into English better than any of them.” He
afterwards studied physick at Edinburgh, and upon the
Continent: and I have been informed, was enabled to pursue his
travels on foot, partly by demanding at Universities to enter
the lists as a disputant, by which, according to the custom of
many of them, he was entitled to the premium of a crown, when
luckily for him his challenge was not accepted; so that, as I
once observed to Dr. Johnson, he disputed his passage
through Europe. He then came to England, and was employed
successively in the capacities of an usher to an academy, a
corrector of the press, a reviewer, and a writer for a
news-paper. He had sagacity enough to cultivate assiduously the
acquaintance of Johnson, and his faculties were gradually
enlarged by the contemplation of such a model. To me and many
others it appeared that he studiously copied the manner of
Johnson, though, indeed, upon a smaller scale.

[58] At this time I
think he had published nothing with his name, though it was
pretty generally known that one Dr. Goldsmith was the
authour of “An Enquiry into the present State of polite Learning
in Europe,” and of “The Citizen of the World,” a series of
letters supposed to be written from London by a Chinese. No man
had the art of displaying with more advantage as a writer,
whatever literary acquisitions he made. “Nihil quod tetigit
non ornavit” His mind resembled a fertile, but thin soil.
There was a quick, but not a strong vegetation, of whatever
chanced to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck. The
oak of the forest did not grow there: but the elegant shrubbery
and the fragrant parterre appeared in gay succession. It has
been generally circulated and believed that he was a mere fool
in conversation; but, in truth, this has been greatly
exaggerated. He had, no doubt, a more than common share of that
hurry of ideas which we often find in his countrymen, and which
sometimes produces a laughable confusion in expressing them. He
was very much what the French call un etourdi, and from
vanity and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever he was,
he frequently talked carelessly without knowledge of the
subject, or even without thought. His person was short, his
countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar
awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. Those who were in any
way distinguished, excited envy in him to so ridiculous an
excess, that the instances of it are hardly credible. When
accompanying two beautiful young ladies with their mother on a
tour in France, he was seriously angry that more attention was
paid to them than to him; and once at the exhibition of the
Fantoccini in London, when those who sat next him
observed with what dexterity a puppet was made to toss a pike,
he could not bear that it should have such praise, and exclaimed
with some warmth, “Pshaw! I can do it better myself.”

[59] He, I am afraid, had no settled
system of any sort, so that his conduct must not be strictly
scrutinized; but his affections were social and generous, and
when he had money he gave it away very liberally. His desire of
imaginary consequence predominated over his attention to truth.
When he began to rise into notice, he said he had a brother who
was Dean of Durham, a fiction so easily detected, that it is
wonderful how he should have been so inconsiderate as to hazard
it. He boasted to me at this time of the power of his pen in
commanding money, which I believe was true in a certain degree,
though in the instance he gave he was by no means correct. He
told me that he had sold a novel for four hundred pounds. This
was his “Vicar of Wakefield.” But Johnson informed
me, that he had made the bargain for Goldsmith, and the price was
sixty pounds. “And, Sir, (said he,) a sufficient price too,
when it was sold; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been
elevated, as it afterwards was, by his ‘Traveller’;
and the bookseller had such faint hopes of profit by his bargain,
that he kept the manuscript by him a long time, and did not
publish it till after the ‘Traveller’ had appeared.
Then, to be sure, it was accidentally worth more
money.”

[60] Mrs. Piozzi and
Sir John Hawkins have strangely misstated the history of
Goldsmith's situation and Johnson's friendly interference, when
this novel was sold. I shall give it authentically from
Johnson's own exact narration:

“I received one morning a message from poor Goldsmith that he
was in great distress, and as it was not in his power to come to
me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent
him a guinea, and promised to come to him directly. I
accordingly went as soon as I was drest, and found that his
landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a
violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my
guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him.
I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and
began to talk to him of the means by which he might be
extricated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the
press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its
merit; told the landlady I should soon return, and having gone
to a bookseller sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith
the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his
landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill.”